


Scars

by BeniMaiko



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, F/M, Knife Play, Knives, One Night Stand, Past demon attack survivor, Scars, Stand Alone, explicit het sex, knife, scar kink, scarred character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:53:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeniMaiko/pseuds/BeniMaiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is the victim of a curse and needs some outside help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Posted previously on FF.net in another version, so if it seems familiar, that may be why. Has been comprehensively edited and altered.

 

Dean was sitting in the Impala on the side the road in some little nowhere town. It's not a busy road, but the wind from passing vehicles occasionally rocked the car. He had his cell phone cradled between his right shoulder and ear while he was holding a paper towel to the still seeping scratch on his left arm.

"Listen Garth, the damn thing is only about an inch long and is no deeper than a paper cut, but it won't stop bleeding and it hasn't stopped burning since it happened. I'm telling you the blade is cursed."

Dean listened to the muffled voice coming out of his cell phone.

"I've flipped through the journal. That's why I called you. The only thing I've got is a picture of a similar blade with two words written underneath; 'ask Wilson.' I need to know if you know who or what Wilson may be. Call me back."

Dean clutched the paper towel tighter to his arm and cursed the mad man that had scratched him with it. Dean hated when he had to go out on jobs with no back-up, but this one had seemed pretty straight forward. Dean was unharmed except for this scratch on his forearm.

Shortly after Dean applied a gauze pad and tape to his arm, his cell phone began to play Foxy Lady. That was Garth's ring tone; a joke that no one ever seemed to get.

"Please tell me you've got something." Dean said into his phone.

Dean listened intently as Garth explained that Wilson was some sort of knife collector and expert. There were no known photographs of the reclusive man. No one even knew if Wilson was his first name or his last.

He communicated by e-mail and text only and didn't meet anyone face to face. Garth gave Dean a cell phone number to try and apologized for not being able to help more.

Dean called the number which went straight to voice mail. "Uh, Hello. Look man, um. This is Dean Winchester. Garth gave me your number, and I could really use your help. I, uh, I have this cut on my arm that won't stop bleeding… or burning. Um. This may sound weird, but the knife that made it may be cursed." Dean felt stupid leaving voice messages to strangers. "Anyway, if you could call me back, I would appreciate it."

Dean snapped a picture of the knife and sent it to Wilson’s phone. Then he sat, waited, and wondered if his arm was going to shrivel up and fall off.

Dean's phone made its 'you have a text message' alert noise, and Dean flipped it open. The message was short and simple. An address was followed by "bring the knife." Dean thought it was good luck that the address was nearby. A two hour drive should get him there. With luck, Saturday afternoon traffic would be light.

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean pulled into the dusty, gravel driveway of a large, cinderblock industrial building. He really hoped this was the right place. There were no cars out front, although Dean had seen a couple of junkers behind a chain link fence that surrounded the property.

Razor wire loops topped the fence and gleamed in the setting sun. A couple of feral cats ran out from under a rusty flatbed trailer and under the chain-link fence when Dean opened the door of his car.

The most remarkable thing about the building was the rebar cages welded inside the two windows that he could see and the large grid made of rebar that was protecting the heavy steel front door. Someone really didn't want anyone or anything getting in. Or maybe, they didn’t want something getting out.

Dean climbed out of the Impala and started toward the front door. A bright light beside the door and several spotlights clicked on just as the sun finally set. The hunter approached the front door and stuck his hand into the six inch grid made by the rebar cage. He knocked twice.

There was no response and Dean began to look around at the building. He could spot several security cameras, one of which moved to track his movements. Dean raised his hand and waved at the camera.

Just as Dean was going to knock again, the steel door behind the rebar cracked open. A shadowy figure in a large, black hooded sweatshirt and loose jeans stood just inside the door. His face was shrouded in darkness, but dean could just make out the tip of a nose and a mouth. The left side of the mouth was pulled upwards into a smirk by a scar starting in its corner.

A voice that sounded like someone whispering around a throat full of gravel asked, "Winchester?"

Dean gave his best friendly smile. It was difficult to turn on his full charm because he couldn't see the man's eyes. "Are you Wilson?" Dean asked. The other man barely twitched. "I'm Dean. I called about a small problem I'm having." When he got no response, Dean held out his left forearm which he had wrapped in gauze.

"I have this cut." Dean began to explain, but the man backed away from the door into the inky blackness beyond. He returned moments later with a copper bowl that he held against his side of the rebar barrier.

"Knife." The man growled and tapped the inside of the bowl with one finger.

 _OK_. Dean wasn't 100% sure giving up the knife was a good idea, so he asked, "Can I come in?"

The small hooded figure just tapped the bowl again, without saying a word.

Dean shrugged and pulled the knife from inside his overshirt pocket. He eased it through the rebar and placed it into the copper bowl. As soon as he released the knife he began to feel dizzy. He got the feeling that he should not be separated from the blade. He wanted to reach through the cage bars and grab it back.

Wilson pulled the bowl away from the door and peered closely into it before he grunted. "Morning."

Dean assumed that he was being told to return in the morning. He really didn't want to walk away and thought he would just spend the night in the back seat of the Impala. He had not made it four steps from the door when he collapsed onto the ground. Moments before blacking out, Dean heard the cage door open and a rough voice mutter, "Fuck."

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean dreams of hell. He dreams of the rack. He dreams of all the things he did to souls that may or may not have deserved it. He can smell the acrid smoke and hear the screeching of demons.

When he wakes, the scents and sounds of the pit do not fade. He slowly opens his eyes and is afraid for a moment that he wasn't dreaming.

Dean doesn't know where he is. He is fully dressed, but a quick pat down informs him that he doesn't have any of his weapons. The smell of ozone still fills his nostrils. A deep thumping bass fills the air accompanied by crackle of ball lightening and a high pitched shrieking noise.

Dean has hazy memories of being dragged inside the building the night before. He had been pushed and prodded up some wooden steps before finally collapsing on a low bed. Dean can't remember anything else and assumes he was unconscious for most of the night.

With a flick of his wrist, the hunter opens his phone and sees that it is almost 7 am. Unfortunately, the phone has no bars. Dean guesses that he won't be calling anyone for help if he has been kidnapped by a crazy person.

Dean cautiously opens the door to the room he is in and looks out. He has to hold his hands over his ears to protect them from the terrible noises. It is dim where he is, but a large area to his right is filled with sunlight. A wooden railing separates him from the rest of the space and he realizes he is standing on a loft overlooking a machine shop.

A large I-beam runs from the cinderblock wall on the left across the loft and into the open area. It is supported by columns down the length of the building and a large hoist is supported between that beam and another running along one wall.

Dean makes his way to the stairs at the other end of the loft. He is surprised that Wilson took the trouble to get him all the way upstairs. If the situation had been reversed, Dean probably would have left the guy just inside the front door. Of course, Sammy would have put the guy to bed like a good host.

Before heading down into the unknown, Dean looks over the railing. A figure is standing halfway down a large aisle that runs from beneath the loft to a small loading dock at the back end of the building. The ozone smell and the ball lightning crackle are explained by the arc welder in the person's hands.

Wilson is wearing the same baggy jeans from the night before. A ratty flannel shirt is covered by a suede welder's apron. A large welder's mask covers his head and he is cutting a notch from the edge of a large piece of sheet metal. The metal is supported by chains hanging from the hoist.

Dean watches the bright flash of electricity before remembering that he likes intact retinas. He looks away from the welder and tries to find what is making the rest of the demonic noises.

The thumping bass and terrible shrieking seem to be coming from a sound system. Dean cannot image that anyone would listen to this on purpose, but Wilson is clearly enjoying it. His right foot is tapping along to the bass line and he shimmies his hips occasionally to a particularly horrible, shrill whine that repeats itself every few seconds. It occurs to Dean that maybe it is a recording from a failed exorcism or demon summoning ritual gone wrong.

As the square falls from the edge of the steel sheet, Wilson turns off the torch, disconnects the grounding wire, and clicks a button that turns off the "music." He flips up the front of the welding mask and turns with uncanny accuracy to face Dean as if he had known all along that he was being watched.

The welder's mask shades Wilson's face from Dean's view. Once again he can only make out the scar that pulls on the corner of Wilson's mouth. Dean tries to be friendly.

"That was some interesting music you were listening to." Dean figured interesting was neutral enough to not be insulting.

Wilson cocked his head slightly to one side and ground out "Skrillex" with his torn up voice.

Dean made a mental note to have Sam research "Skrillex" as the possible name of a demon.

Wilson points toward the area under Dean's feet. "Front office. Wait." He croaks out before turning to put away the welding gear.

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean makes his way to a small office on the front of the building. It contains the first window that he had seen by the door the night before. The inside of the window is covered by a grid of iron rebar welded to a metal frame.

A heavy line of salt runs the length of the window sill. The ceiling has a devil trap painted in thick red lines and the floor has a circle of holy oil residue.

The wooden door has a deadbolt near the top in addition to locks near the nob. The face of the door as well as the door frame have several small symbols gouged into the wood. As Dean passes through the open doorway, all the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up on end. There is some serious juice in the warding of the room.

Dean finds himself somewhat relieved to find that Wilson has taken proper precautions with defenses. It is unusual to find someone that wards as heavily against angels as he does against demons, and this place seems to be a fortress against the supernatural.

Water can be heard running through pipes, and Dean assumes that Wilson is showering. Before long, the creak of the ceiling above him indicates that the man is in the room where the hunter woke up. So, Dean had probably spent the night in the dude's own bed, and he had to wonder where or if Wilson had slept.

Dean has made himself comfortable in a large leather office chair and propped his feet on the steel case desk under the window. He had considered sitting at the desk by the door which has a laptop on it, but he is still trying to stay on Wilson's good side by not seeming nosy.

He had tried the front door and found it to be dead-bolted. The windows were padlocked shut, but even if he had broken them out, there was no way he could get through the rebar protection. There is another door in the office that presumably leads to the room containing the second window on the front of the building. That door was also locked.

Until he was able to explore the rest of the building, Dean was effectively trapped.

A small movement out of the corner of his eye caused Dean to turn his head towards the office door. The man was a bit caught off guard. A petite woman peeked around the corner of the door. Her forehead pressed against the doorframe cutting Dean's view of her face in half.

One bright blue-grey eye was shaded under thick lashes and a gently arching brow. Her light brown hair was damp and pulled back in a pony-tail. A few loose tendrils curled around her neck.

Half of a small, upturned nose was covered in freckles. She held her right hand up under her chin and grasped the doorframe as she leaned against it. The arm was slim with defined muscles and the leg revealed by the faded cut-off shorts was long and shapely. The foot at the end of the leg was wearing a worn army boot.

Dean's eyes finished their slow perusal of the woman and returned to her face. The hunter could no more control the flirtatious smile that spread across his face than he could control his heartbeat.

The woman’s eyebrows rose in surprise for a moment, and then she scowled. She pushed back from the door frame and stepped fully into the room.

Only hunter reflexes and a well-trained poker face kept Dean from flinching. He managed to keep the smile on his face, but it was a close call. Something horrible had happed to the woman at some point in her life.

The left side of the woman's face was scarred in a way that pulled the corner of her mouth up into a smirk. The ragged scar ran across her cheek to her ear which was missing the lobe.  

A roadmap of scar tissue criss-crossed the left side of the woman's body. Some lines were thick and ropey while most were thin silvery spider webbing. A particularly nasty mass of scar tissue destroyed the front of her throat and a tracheotomy scar marred the base of her neck.

Dean realized that this explained the 'Tom Waites with laryngitis' voice. This woman was Wilson.

Dean kept the smile plastered on his face. He wanted to acknowledge Wilson’s survival of whatever did this to her, but he had no idea how to do so without revealing the pity he felt. He cleared his throat and said, "Thanks for not leaving me to spend the night in the gravel out front."

Wilson nodded slightly and blinked at him. She turned to the laptop and clicked to open a file. She stood slightly bent at the waist, leaning over the desk. Dean was of the opinion that she had a very fine ass. One pale white scar wove its way up the back of her leg and under the frayed edge of her shorts.

Dean twitched with the urge to trace that scar with his tongue and find out where it went. _What the fuck?_ Dean planted his feet on the concrete floor as the shock of his wayward thoughts coursed through him.

The printer whirred to life and soon Dean was holding a dossier of the knife he had been cut with the day before. The top page was a photograph of "his" knife next to a ruler for scale. A sketch of the maker's mark was followed by a spread sheet of the weapons known to have been made by the same hand. His knife was one of thirteen made by a mad, French priest.

Dean really hated crazy priests and was continuously surprised by just how many of them have existed. In addition to the information about his knife, each knife on the list had a photo or drawing, known locations, owners, associated curses, and when they had been used.

The information about his knife was highlighted. Under known curses it said "KOD." Dean tapped the letters with his finger and lifted his eyebrows in a question. Wilson looked Dean squarely in the eye and croaked out, "Kill or die."

Dean swung his feet off the desk and stood up in front of Wilson. He felt a moment of guilt when she flinched back from him, but he snapped, "Fuck that."

Wilson recovered quickly and put her scarred left hand in the middle of Dean's chest pushing him back to the chair. There was no way that her 5 foot 2 inch, one hundred and nothing pound self could force his 6 foot 1 inch, two hundred pounds of muscle to do anything, but he allowed her to shove him back in the chair.

Wilson reached across him to pick up his papers from where he had slapped them down on the desk. Dean noticed that her still damp hair smelled like apples and cinnamon; like apple pie. Wilson flipped to the last page of the dossier and waved the pages at him with a nearly silent huff.

Dean looked at the last page which seemed to be another drawing of the maker's mark. He quickly compared the two images and found several distinct differences. The second image seemed to be a mirror image of the first. The swirls were counter-clockwise instead of clockwise and there was a pentagram in the center instead of around the outside of the mark.

"What am I looking at?" Dean asked Wilson.

Wilson smiled at Dean and answered "Cure."

Wilson tapped Dean lightly on his arm where gauze covered the still oozing scratch. "Knife here." She husked before touching the drawing of the rune.

Dean's eyes got a little wider. "Am I supposed to cut that symbol into my arm using the cursed blade?" he asked incredulously.

Wilson just shrugged and said, "Probably." She sat down at the desk and opened a Word file. Her fingers flew over the keys as she typed onto the blank page:

_You have caught one doozy of a curse. It will start with dreams of cutting people with the knife. It will escalate into an overwhelming urge to cut, slice, and disfigure. You will need it; crave it. It will become all you think about; an obsession. When you finally give in to the need, you will enjoy it. It will feel like the best thing you have ever done. If you don't cut and kill, you will die. It is going to drive you into madness. Someone will eventually put you down like a mad dog._

Wilson turned the laptop screen to face Dean so that he could read what she had typed.

Dean felt all the blood drain out of his face. Wilson had no way of knowing how close to home this was hitting. Dean had spent a decade slicing souls in hell. He had loved every minute of it because it had kept him off the rack. He was an expert with using a knife to cut people into pieces.

"Let's just destroy the thing and be done with it." Dean didn't even want to touch the knife again if it was going to lead to him torturing and killing people.

Wilson began to type again:

_Destroying the blade may kill you. Separating you from the knife may kill you. When it was inside my wards last night, you didn't make it more than a few steps before collapsing. I had to drag you inside before you started breathing again._

Wilson looked Dean in the eyes for several long seconds before typing again:

_I won't let you become a monster. I could cut you off from the knife or destroy it and kill you, but I think this ritual will circumvent the curse. The maker wanted to have a way to prevent himself and his followers from falling prey to the curses on these blades. As a matter of fact, you should be protected from all 13 curses if you do this. You can live with a little scar can't you?_

Wilson looked up at Dean through her lashes and winked at him.

"Son of a Bitch!" was all Dean had to say about that.

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean followed Wilson out to a large storage cabinet. She unlocked two padlocks, one at the top of the cabinet and one at the bottom, before opening the doors wide. The shelves inside the walk-in locker were lined with clear plastic containers, wooden boxes, glass jars, and wicker baskets. There were stacks of copper bowls like the one he had placed his knife in.

Wilson began to gather supplies. She carefully sniffed at a few herbs before putting them in Dean's hands. She grabbed a small mortar and pestle from one shelf and a glass jar from another.

Dean stepped back when Wilson spun around to face him. He had not realized how close he had gotten to her back while waiting for her to hand him more to carry. He had been sniffing at her hair and following the lines of her scars with his eyes.

Dean had never had a scar kink before, and he was afraid his reactions were part of the curse. His desire to touch Wilson's scars was really strong. He was afraid the rest of the curse was going to be even stronger.

Wilson motioned for him to get out of her way so she could leave the tight space. He continued to back up to get out of her way as she walked out of the locker.

Dean watched as Wilson placed her tools on a work bench and put the small bundles of herbs he carried down next to them. He wanted to ask questions, but he didn't want to make Wilson have to speak to answer him. It was clear that Wilson preferred one word answers because it was painful for her to speak. She walked around the far side of the work bench and crouched down behind it.

Wilson stood up placing a large box of CDs on the bench top. She pulled out a CD case and went to put her music on the stereo system. Dean didn't think his ears could handle another auditory assault like that morning's.

The music was some sort of electronic crap, but it wasn't painful to listen to. As Wilson worked crushing herbs with the mortar and pestle, her arm kept time with the pounding bass beats of the music. Dean found himself staring at her as she worked. The end of her tongue kept poking out over her bottom lip. As the third song started up, Wilson's foot began to tap in time with the music. Her curvy hips gave the occasional shimmy. Dean was enthralled.

Just as Wilson dumped the crushed herbs into a jar of holy water, a new song started up. Wilson threw her head back in a silent laugh and began to dance in earnest. Dean's eyes scrunched up in an effort to keep from laughing. Wilson was a terrible dancer.

Her arms flailed while her feet stomped and shuffled in turns. It looked like the chicken dance and the electric slide had a bastard love child with _oh my God,_ was that the dougie?

Well, if Dean was being honest with himself, she was not terrible. He realized that she was not dancing for him. She was not a stripper or an exotic dancer. She wasn't some chick trying to pick him up in a bar. She clearly didn't give a crap what he thought of her dancing. She may have forgotten he was even there. Her body moved freely to the music. She was smiling and swaying. Her arms swung and her hips rocked.

She looked _joyful._

Dean slowly walked around to her and reached out to put his right hand on her waist. Wilson's eyes startled open, but Dean just smiled and began to dance with her. He didn't try to pull her too close to him or grind his hips into hers; he just moved to the same bass beat that was guiding her.

If he wasn't touching her side with his hand, it may have seemed like they were just dancing near each other. Dean did his best to pick up on how she was going to sway her body. He was able to inch closer to her without fear of colliding hips or tangling feet.

As the song ended, Wilson cocked her head to one side and smiled. She turned to the stereo and clicked forward to the next disc to select one song in particular. The music started and Wilson strutted back to him with a gleam in her eyes. Dean pulled her a little closer and they began to dance again. A huge grin lit up Wilson's face when the first line of the lyrics began. _'Can I get fresh with you girl?'_

The sudden, painful thought darted through Dean's mind that Wilson was making fun of him, and he started to back away from her. Wilson just pulled him closer and winked up at him. The way she wiggled against him was driving Dean crazy. He couldn't help himself; he lifted his right hand to Wilson's face and ran the pad of his thumb along the scar from the corner of her mouth to her ear.

Wilson stiffened and jerked back from Dean. She quickly turned the music off and picked up the jar of herb filled holy water. Without making eye contact with Dean, she croaked out "24 hours," and gave the jar a shake. Wilson walked away from Dean into the front office, taking the jar and shutting the door behind her.

Dean is uncomfortably aware that he fucked up. _Damn it!_ He should feel bad for touching Wilson's scarred face, but he doesn't. He would do it again in a second if she would let him, but he does feel bad for upsetting her.

After giving Wilson a few minutes to cool off, Dean knocked on the office door. He waited a second, listening for a come in or some sort of acknowledgement that he was waiting on the other side of the door. Dean tried the door knob and the door pushed open.

Wilson was sitting in the leather office chair mimicking Dean's position from earlier. Her booted feet were crossed at the ankles and propped up on the metal desk. She didn't even turn her head or look at Dean as he walked in the door.

Dean gritted his teeth and then said, "I need some things out of my car if I'm going to be here for another 24 hours."

Wilson dropped her boot clad feet to the floor and stood up cupping her hands and wiggling her fingers.

"Oh, hell no. I'm not letting you rummage through Baby! I just meant you needed to let me out of this maximum security prison you call home."

Wilson pointed at Dean, pantomimed her fingers in a walking motion out the door, and then clutched at her throat like she was choking before flopping her head to the side like she was dead. Dean was a little insulted by the tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth in the 'Dean is dead' phase of her performance.

Dean clenched his fists before reaching into his pocket and handing over his keys.

Wilson walked to the front door and used one of her many keys to unlock the dead-bolt. She pulled open the heavy steel door and used a different key to unlock the dead-bolt on the rebar cage door. Instead of heading directly to baby, she walked along the front of the building and unlocked a large gate in the 8 foot high chain link fence. Only after the gate had been swung all the way open did she head towards the Impala.

As she approached the rear of the car like she was going to open the trunk, Dean yelled out, "No. I have a duffel bag in the back seat. That's all I need. Oh, and the bag of snacks from the passenger seat."

Wilson raised one eyebrow at him and shrugged. She unlocked the car and pulled his duffel from the back and a plastic grocery bag from the front. She brought the bags to Dean before returning to the car and sliding into the driver's seat. Dean could see her sitting perched on the front of the seat so that her feet could reach the pedals.

Dean watched anxiously as Wilson drove the car through the open gate and behind the building. He could hear the loud rumble of the Impala's engine cut off and a few minutes later Wilson walked back through the gate. She closed everything up and relocked the gate before returning to Dean at the front door.

He holds out his hand and Wilson drops his keys into them before walking past him into the building. As soon as Dean picks up his bags and drops them on the closest horizontal surface, Wilson locks the front of the building up tight again.

Dean followed Wilson into her office while trying to come up with an appropriate apology.

"Look, I'm sorry I upset you. I should have realized that you are self-conscious about your scars." Dean tried to use a soft soothing voice but failed miserably. He winced as he realized how patronizing he sounded.

Wilson whirled around on him and jabbed him in the middle of his chest with one finger. Then she plopped into the chair behind her laptop and her fingers blurred over the keys:

_You think I haven't heard of you Dean Winchester? The "Righteous Man" that has fucked his way from one side of this country to the other? You think I'd just hop into bed with you and be grateful for a pity fuck? Your scars are all hidden away where no one can see them, but we both know they are there. My scars are out where anyone can see them. I've had 20 years to accept them. I'm not fucking "self-conscious" about them, you ass._

Dean flinched from the words on the screen. So, maybe he had misinterpreted her reaction to him. It wasn't touching her scar that made her angry, it was just him and his flirting. He stood up without making eye contact. "You don't know anything about me." He muttered before stomping out the door.

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean felt trapped. Under normal circumstances he would have hopped into the Impala and driven away. He was angry with Wilson. He was angry with himself. He was mad at this whole situation.

If Wilson was so at peace with her scars, why the hell would she assume he didn't find her genuinely attractive? Dean grabs his duffel and heads off to find the shower. He turns on the taps and waits for the water to warm up before stripping off his dirty clothes and stepping under the hot spray.

Was it really so bad what he had done? He had just touched Wilson's face. Dean remembered the smooth feel of the scar as he had traced it with his thumb. He frowned down at himself as his dick gave a twitch at the memory.

Dean grabbed a bar of soap and lathered his hands. _Don't think about licking the scar. Don't think about running your tongue from her mouth to her ear._ **Fuuuuuck.** Dean was now rock hard. Dean ran his soapy hands over himself and grabbed his cock, giving it several slow strokes.

All he could think about was tracing every scar on Wilson's body with his mouth. He wanted to run his hands down her body feeling soft, unmarked skin with his left hand and scarred flesh with his right. Dean came with a groan, spurting against the shower tiles.

As he caught his breath, Dean realized he was one sick puppy.

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean dressed in clean jeans and a soft grey tee shirt before heading out to track down Wilson and try to apologize once again. He found her in a small kitchen area making sandwiches. His stomach grumbled loudly as he caught sight of the food.

Wilson turned around and held out a paper plate with a Dagwood style sandwich on it. She looked him in the eyes and whispered, "peace offering."

Dean accepted the sandwich and sat at the battered table. Wilson brought her own sandwich to the table and sat diagonally from Dean. She tapped her chest and husked out three words, "Hungry. Cranky. Sorry."

Dean already had a mouth full of delicious sandwich, so he just nodded. As soon as he had finished chewing and swallowing, Dean said, "I was really enjoying myself, you know. With the dancing I mean. I wasn't doing it just to get you into bed." Well that was strictly the truth; Dean had not been trying to get her into bed at the time, but he was going to do his best to get her there now.

Dean gave Wilson his best 'good guy' smile. "I know I got a bit of a reputation when I was younger. That kind of thing sticks with you even after you've changed. I don't know what you heard, but…" Dean trailed off as Wilson lifted her hands into the air.

She straightened her fingers and held her palms facing each other about a foot apart in the air. Then she grinned and winked at him.

Dean's jaw dropped as he realized that she had heard how well he was endowed. Wilson threw her head back and barked out a laugh that sounded like someone choking on cement. Dean's face grew hot and he decided to just shut up and eat his sandwich.

When they had both finished eating, Wilson threw away the paper plates and grabbed a couple bottles of beer from the fridge. She carried them out to the workbench and pulled out the box of CDs.

Dean opened the beers and took a long pull on his. He was curious about what kind of music she would put on this time. Would it be more demonic screeching or electronica? Wilson seemed to find what she was looking for and loaded a disc in the changer.

Dean slid the case over so that he could read the name. He realized it was a mix disc when he saw the handwritten list inside the clear plastic cover.

Blue Foundation – Eyes on Fire (Zeds Dead Remix) Kid Cudi – Pursuit of Happiness Ratatat – Loud Pipes MGMT – Time to Pretend

He didn't recognize any of the bands or song names, but had only read the first few lines before the music started. Wilson pressed up against his front and grabbed his hips with her hands. She began to rock her own hips into his in time to the first beats.

 _I won't soothe your pain. I won't ease your strain._ __I'll seek you out, flay you alive. One more word and you won't survive.__

It didn't matter that he had 'cleaned his pipes' less than an hour before. As soon as he heard "flay you alive" Dean had become rock hard. If this was Wilson testing his good intentions, Dean was failing miserably. He put his beer bottle down on the work counter and put his hands on Wilson's shoulders. His heart was racing as he slid his left hand around to the nape of her neck.

Wilson continued to stare steadily into Dean's eyes. He felt like she was gazing at his soul or reading his mind. He swallowed hard and leaned down to press his lips against hers.

Dean was determined to keep his right hand on Wilson's hip, but it was a losing battle. As soon as her tongue slid across his closed mouth, Dean lifted his hand to her face and once again traced her scar with the pad of his thumb. Wilson did not retreat from Dean's touch. Instead, she licked his lips once again, and Dean's mouth opened to allow her access.

Wilson pulled back from kissing Dean and picked up her still full bottle of beer. She tilted her head back and took three long gulps from it before putting the bottle back on the workbench. Dean watched her with hungry eyes until she twisted her hand in the front of his tee shirt and started to pull him towards the stairs leading to her bedroom.

The music had devolved into a throbbing bass beat that sent shivers up Dean's spine. He kept one hand rubbing on Wilson's back as she led him to her bed. Wilson sat on the edge of the mattress and removed her boots and socks. Dean followed her lead and removed his own.

Dean leaned over and began to kiss Wilson again. She worked her hands at his belt and opened the top button of his jeans. He tugged on the bottom hem of her grey tank top and dragged his fingers over her ribs as he lifted the shirt to her arms.

They broke their kiss long enough for Wilson to lift her arms so that Dean could pull the shirt off over her head. Dean licked his lips as his eyes began to trace over the scars that started on her shoulder and disappeared under Wilson's black bra.

Dean grabbed the bottom of his own tee shirt and yanked it off over his head. He tossed it carelessly to the side and leaned toward Wilson, pushing her back onto the bed. Dean lay on his left side with his right leg pressed between Wilson's legs. He felt like a teenager grinding himself against her. He traced over several small silver scars with his fingertips, ghosting them over her ribs and down to the waistband of her cut-off jean shorts.

Dean kissed the right side of Wilson's neck from her ear to her shoulder and then licked across the smooth skin of the tracheotomy scar at the base of her throat. Wilson's breaths came faster and her hands clutched at Dean's shoulders and chest, but she made no other noises.

Dean was accustomed to hearing moans of approval or small words of encouragement during sex. This near silence was forcing Dean to focus on Wilson's every movement and facial expression to gauge her pleasure. It was erotic as hell and pushing Dean ever closer to orgasm.

Dean leaned back to kneel on the side of the bed. He worked his jeans and boxers down his hips until they dropped to the floor. As his stiff cock sprang free from its confinement, Dean crawled back across the bed to Wilson.

While she watched Dean strip bare for her, Wilson slid her own shorts and panties off and kicked them off the side of the bed. She unhooked and discarded her bra, then rolled over and opened the small drawer in the top of her nightstand. She reached into the drawer and pulled out several condoms, dropping them on top of the table.

Dean ran his hand up Wilson's leg from her knee to her hip. He massaged his thumb into the tender skin over her hip bone. He pulled her closer to him until they were spooned together, lying on their left sides. Wilson let her head rest on the bicep of his left arm while Dean kissed her neck.

Dean's right hand stroked Wilson's flank before moving to run fingers through her soft curls. As his index finger lightly flicked at her clit, Wilson let out a hiss and arched against Dean's chest. Dean pressed his dick against Wilson's ass and moaned in her ear.

Dean was surprised by how wet Wilson was under his hand. The end of his cock was already leaking pre-cum in anticipation of sliding into her warm cleft. He reached over Wilson to grab a condom from the night stand. Before he could put it on, Wilson took it from him and rolled it down his throbbing shaft. She pushed him onto his back and straddled Dean's hips.

Wilson reached between her legs to guide Dean's hardness to her opening. She threw her head back and gasped a deep breath as she slid down Dean's length. Dean clutched at her hips as Wilson's heat enveloped him. The tight smooth glide of her body almost made him come undone.

Dean lifted his hips to meet Wilson's downward thrust. He needed to make Wilson come so that he could fall across the finish line himself. He licked his thumb to make it slick. Working his hand down between their bodies, Dean began to gently rub small circles against Wilson's clit. Her eyes screwed tightly shut. She began to tremble and gasp above him.

Within seconds, Dean could feel Wilson's body clench around him as she hunched over, thighs shaking. With a few quick strokes, Dean followed her into ecstasy. He breathed deep gulps of air, catching his breath. Wilson slowly leaned forward until she was giving Dean the 'Full Cowgirl.'

Dean brushed Wilson's sweaty hair out of her eyes, and planted a kiss on her forehead. With a groan, he helped her slide to the side so that he could dispose of the used condom.

As they cooled off and recovered from their exertions, Dean reached over to run his hand across Wilson's stomach. He couldn’t resist tracing the lines of a few faint scars with his fingertips.

"You said you've had these for twenty years. How old were you when this happened?" Dean's curiosity is getting the better of him. He didn't want to pry, but Wilson had made it pretty clear that she was able to talk about her scars without embarrassment.

Wilson held up her right hand and extended all her fingers twice. Dean guessed, "You were ten?" Wilson nodded.

"If you don't want to talk about this, it's fine." Dean said quietly. Wilson just shrugged, so Dean continued with his questions. "What did this to you, was it an accident?"

Wilson rolled her eyes at Dean and dragged her finger from her hairline down the center of her body as if to say ' _What kind of freaky accident could only affect half of me?'_

Dean muttered, "Oh, right. Not an accident then."

Wilson began to trace letters into the skin of Dean’s belly. D – E – M – O – N.

Dean grunted his understanding, "Demon. I hate those sons of bitches."

Dean shifted enough to be able to kiss Wilson on the front of her throat and then laid back down. "It meant to kill you. Didn't it?" Wilson touched her neck, rubbing fingers over the rough patch of skin. She nodded, _Yes_.

Dean began to ask 'What happened?' but he knew he should stick to yes, no or one word answers, so he asked simply, "Who saved you?"

Wilson looked over her shoulder at Dean and whispered, "Father." Dean thought she had been lucky that her dad had gotten to her in time to save her. "Your dad must have been very brave." He replied.

Wilson scrunched her eyes closed shook her head. Dean wondered what she meant, her dad wasn't brave? She rolled over in Dean's arms and patted the middle of his chest with her open palm. She swallowed hard and croaked out, "Your father."

Dean didn't know how to respond to that. His dad hadn't written anything in his journal about a little girl being sliced to ribbons by a demon. He tried to remember back to when he had been 14 or 15 years old. John had probably left him in charge of Sammy and worked the case as a solo hunt.

John would have been a few years older than Dean was now when it happened. If she was 10 at the time of the attack, then Wilson was just about Sammy's age. Dean tried to imagine John killing a demon and finding a little girl, the same age as his own youngest child, cut up and bleeding to death, choking on her own blood. He ran his thumb over Wilson's tracheotomy scar and was glad he had not been with John on that hunt.

Wilson reached behind Dean's back and pulled a blanket over their bodies. She then turned off the small lamp beside the bed and scrunched back into Dean so that they were spooning once again. Dean buried his nose in Wilson's hair and hugged her close. He loved to cuddle.

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Wilson was shackled to the rack in front of Dean by her ankles and wrists. Dean was slightly confused. She didn't have any of her beautiful scars. The left side of her body was as unmarked as the right. Dean could not imagine how something like that could have happened, and he was determined to remedy the situation as soon as possible.

Dean searched for the straight razor he preferred to use, but could not find it on the cart in front of him. Instead, the knife that had nicked his arm seemed to be the only tool available. That was fine with Dean. He had been wanting to test its edge on some tender flesh.

ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ

Dean woke with a gasp. OK, so he had started dreaming about using the knife. Phase one of the fucking curse complete. Usually when Dean had nightmares about his stint in hell, he woke feeling nauseated and guilty. Dean glanced down at the raging boner he was sporting and knew this time was different.

Dean felt Wilson's palm press against the middle of his back. Dean laid down again and stretched out beside Wilson. He ran his hand over her body and felt old scars. She wasn't bleeding or injured. He hadn't cut into her skin or hurt her in any way, but he still felt guilt.

Wilson pulled him across her body and wrapped her legs around his hips. She began to kiss him while staring into his open eyes. Dean moaned and kissed her back. He licked along her scarred cheek and bit at her ear.

Dean worked his mouth down Wilson's body to focus on her nipples. Her right nipple was pale pink and erect. He sucked it into his mouth to feel it pebble under his tongue. Then he turned his attention to her left nipple. It had been bisected by a shallow cut and was split in two. Dean wanted to know if it was reactive as the unharmed side. He flicked his tongue over it and watched as it flush darker pink.

While he worked Wilson's nipples, Dean had been using his right thumb to stroke and massage Wilson's clit. He had put two fingers inside her body, curling them forward to make her gasp. When he sensed that she was ready, Dean reached for a condom and quickly rolled it down his throbbing cock.

Dean climbed Wilson's body, and she once again wrapped her legs around his hips. She used her heels to pull him closer and Dean slid slowly into her wet heat.

Dean whimpered and groaned as he tried to last inside Wilson. He could tell that she was close to orgasm, so he just needed to last a little bit longer. He leaned back onto his heels and pulled her left leg up over his shoulder. This turned Wilson's body slightly onto her left side and allowed him to go a little deeper. He reached down with his right hand and gently rubbed her clit while pounding into her at this new angle.

Wilson's entire body spasmed as an orgasm swept over her. Dean's own orgasm followed quickly and he collapsed behind Wilson on the bed. He had just enough time to dispose of the used condom and tangle his arms and legs with Wilson's before sleep overtook him once again.

The next time Dean woke up, he was alone in Wilson's bed. He could hear the sounds of machinery running. A loud rumble sounded like thunder but was too regular and lasted too long. The beep, beep, beep of a back-up signal could be faintly heard.

Dean searched around for his clothes and got dressed. He walked out of Wilson's bedroom and onto the loft. He was surprised to see that all of the fluorescent lights were on and the garage door of the small loading dock was open. The stereo was on, but it was playing a classic rock radio station instead of Wilson's preferred bass heavy synth-pop.

Dean went down the steps and began to search for Wilson. The first person he ran into was a man standing at the workbench in the middle of the building. His hands were busy wrapping tape around the ends of several copper wires being pulled out of spools. Dean didn't want to disturb the man's work, but he also didn't feel like he should just be wandering around the building. "Hey man, do you know where Wilson is?" Dean asked.

The guy nodded his head and pointed with his chin towards the front of the building. "Yeah. She's in her office." The man said with a smile. "She told me to send 'sleeping beauty' her way when you woke up." The man continued with a smirk. Dean smiled a relaxed grin and shrugged. He said, "Thanks" and went to track Wilson down.

When Dean walked under the loft to the front of the building he paused and his eyes grew wide. The front door was open and he could see several pick-up trucks parked in the front of the building. It was at this point that Dean truly realized that this was an actual business. People worked here. It had been locked up before because it was the weekend. Wilson had a real job and a real life.

He turned away from the open front door and walked into Wilson's office. She was sitting hunched over a stack of paperwork next to her laptop. When Dean walked in, Wilson sat up and smiled at him.

He couldn't resist asking, "Sleeping beauty, huh?" Wilson winked at him and nodded. Then, she pointed to the mini-fridge in the corner of the office where a coffee pot and box of doughnuts were sitting.

While Dean helped himself to the 'breakfast of champions', Wilson used a key from her large key ring to unlock the door in the back of the office. She opened the door as far as it would go before using her booted toe to drag a brick in front of it as a door stop. She reached to the other side of the doorway and flicked a switch causing fluorescent ceiling lights to come on.

Dean looked into the well lit room and whistled. This room was much larger than the front office. Dean walked in and looked around. To his right was a large wooden library table with a computer keyboard and mouse. Under the table were several computers networked together. The wall above the table had several large, flat computer monitors, a few of which were on moveable arms.

Bulky fireproof file cabinets ran the length of the left hand wall. They were topped by wooden shelves containing numerous thick books. Some of the books appeared to be about engineering, but there were also supply catalogues, machine maintenance manuals, and several trade magazines. Dean also spotted several grimoires and handwritten journals mixed in.

Against the back wall was a long, wooden workbench covered in bits of electrical equipment and tools. What really caught Dean's eye was the floor of the room. Set into the concrete floor was an enormous devil trap. It was at least 12 feet in diameter. None of the furniture in the room over lapped the circle in any way. As a matter of fact, there was room to walk around the circle on all sides without stepping inside it.

The circle itself was embedded into the floor. Dean knelt down and ran his fingers over the circle. The outer circle and inner pentagrams seemed to be made of solid copper set into the concrete of the floor. The runes were silver, and Dean didn't want to think about how much something like that would cost. He also had to wonder why Wilson would need something like this.

"You must throw a hell of a party." Dean quipped.

Wilson grinned at him and stepped into his personal space. She ran her right hand up his chest and neck. She ran the pad of her thumb across his lips and the circled the back of his neck to pull him into a kiss.

Dean was more than happy to oblige and pulled Wilson closer to his body. For some reason it felt like a goodbye kiss to Dean. Maybe Wilson also suspected that his sudden but deep attraction to her had something to do with the curse he was under.

Wilson broke the kiss first and went to the front office door to shut it. Dean had turned his back to the door to study the floor some more, but he could hear the lock click into place. She then returned to Dean and took his hand, giving it a light squeeze before pulling him across the room to the workbench at the back. She pulled out a stool from underneath the bench and indicated to Dean that he should sit down.

Dean sat on the wooden, three-legged stool and watched Wilson. She opened a plastic storage box that was under the table and pulled out several clean, white towels. She placed one folded towel on the table top in front of Dean and lifted his left arm so that he forearm with the knife wound was resting on the towel.

Wilson carefully removed the gauze and medical tape from Deans wound. It was now an angry red and was still slowly seeping blood. Wilson pulled out a smaller towel and opened the glass jar that contained the holy water and herb mixture that she had made the day before. She dipped the cloth into the mixture and began to clean Dean's wound.

Dean hissed between his teeth as the cloth dragged over the wound. He was surprised at the pain. The cut was so small and shallow that under normal circumstances, he would not have even used a bandage over it. It felt like Wilson was pouring acid over his skin. She paused in her cleaning to pull open a straight razor and remove all of the hair from the skin surrounding the cut.

Wilson gripped Dean's left hand with her own before continuing to clean the cut and the shaved skin around it. After a few minutes, she put the cleaning cloth down and Dean sighed with relief. She patted him on the shoulder and kissed his right cheek. Then she walked over to one of the filing cabinets and opened a drawer.

Wilson glanced back over her shoulder to Dean before pulling out a cloth wrapped bundle. Dean instantly knew it was his knife. The heavy, metal, fireproof cabinets were apparently additionally warded against the supernatural.

Until Wilson had pulled the knife from the drawer, Dean had not known it was there. Now, the knife took up all of his attention. He wanted to get his hands on it. He thought maybe it was a bad idea coming here to try and break the curse. He had imposed himself on Wilson's generosity. She was only helping him because of his father, anyway.

She had probably only slept with him out of some misplaced sense of obligation to his family. If only Dean could get his hands on the knife, he would show Wilson that he didn't deserve her pity. He would slice her and give her a few more scars to remember him by.

Dean began to shake with the need to grab the knife. Wilson placed it on the table next to him and Dean wanted to reach out and touch it. Just as he was about to, Wilson gave him another kiss on the cheek.

Something stirred in Dean's mind. He knew there was something he needed to do; a reason he was not supposed to cut on Wilson while she sobbed and pleaded for mercy.

Dean looked into Wilson's blue-grey eyes and saw compassion and understanding. Dean struggled to breath and managed to whisper, "Help me." Wilson nodded and unfolded the cloth around the knife. Dean was trembling all over by the time Wilson guided his right hand to the handle of the blade.

Wilson had taped a piece of printer paper to the wall above the work bench. It contained a high definition image of the rune Dean was supposed to cut into his own skin using the cursed knife.

Dean began to cut. He started with a pentagram that incorporated the original wound. He wanted to turn the blade and cut across Wilson's skin.

He began the counter-clockwise spiral around the pentagram.

He could just slit Wilson's throat and run. He was good at running and hiding.

Dean started on the circle around the outside of the design.

He didn't really believe the rune would work, anyway. He would humour Wilson and pretend everything was fine. Then he could take his time and really work her over good.

As the last cut connected and the design was complete, Dean let out a gasp. The rune flared white and a bone searing heat scorched Dean's skin. The design was cauterized instantly and the curse was broken.

Dean dropped the knife from nerveless fingers and began to sob uncontrollably. "Get that fucking thing away from me!" he moaned. Wilson rubbed his back and ran her fingers through his hair. Dean knew it was her way of telling him that everything was going to be alright.

Dean's head jerked up in surprise as he heard a throat clearing from the front office. The man he had spoken with earlier was uncocking the hammer of a 45 revolver that had been trained on the back of Dean's head. "I'm gonna head back out to the shop, Boss. Is that's OK with you?" Wilson nodded and the man quickly left the room, shutting the door behind himself.

Dean looked at Wilson and nodded. "That was a good idea, having him there, but you should not have taken such a risk. You don't know the things I wanted to do to you." Dean hung his head in shame, unable to make eye contact with Wilson.

Wilson lifted her hand to touch him, but Dean flinched away from her. He was horrified by the things he had been thinking of doing to her and the dreams he had the night before. He didn't know how Wilson could even stand to be in the same room as him. She should have just shot him like a rabid dog when he had first gotten here.

Dean backed away from Wilson, still avoiding eye contact. He began to stammer out some sort of thanks. "Uh, thanks for everything. I'm going to pack up my stuff, now. I, uh, have a long drive ahead of me to get back home." Dean didn't know what he was telling her, he was just babbling. "Sixteen hours. That's how long it's going to take me. To get to Lawrence, Kansas, that is." Dean practically ran from Wilson's office.

By the time Dean had packed his duffel, Wilson had cleaned up from the ritual. The back office door was closed once again, and Wilson was standing in the sunlight streaming through the open front door. She must have heard him walking up behind her because she turned to face him.

Dean's breath caught in his throat as he took in the sight before him. The sun lit up Wilson's body like a halo. She was dressed in work jeans that hid her legs from him, but Dean could still remember the feel of them wrapped around his hips, pulling him into her. Her tight fitting tee shirt had grease stains and several small holes, but it was snug against her curves.

Dean wanted to feel those curves under him, but knew he probably never would again. Wilson's hair was pulled back into a loose pony-tail. Dean could clearly see the scars on her face, neck, and left arm. He was surprised by how strong the urge to trace those scars with his tongue still was.

Dean realized that his desire for her had nothing to do with the curse. It had been an instant, natural chemistry between them that Dean was going to miss, but he knew Wilson had a real life here, and Dean needed to get back to whatever he had.

Dean told Wilson, "I want to thank you for saving me. If you ever need me for anything, please call." Wilson raised one eyebrow and quirked her lips. Dean blushed and stammered, "or text. Text or e-mail work, and Garth has a knack for tracking me down." Dean needed to hold her one more time, so he dropped his duffel and squeezed Wilson in a hug. He gave one last sniff to her apple-pie scented hair and kissed her temple.

Dean carried his bag around the building to the Impala. He considered asking Wilson if he could stay one more night, but quickly rejected the idea. He had a long way to go before he got home. He needed to get started.

 


End file.
